


Hallway Interlude

by eon_s



Series: TOW all the FRIENDS fics [1]
Category: Friends (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bisexual Chandler Bing, Boys Being Boys, Chandler is struggling, Co-workers, Drinking to Cope, Friendship, Gen or Pre-Slash, House Party, I guess so, Internalized Homophobia, Joey is trying, Panic Attacks, Period Typical Attitudes, Self-Denial, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Touch-Starved, can you say that about the 90s?, fuck im so old, it's up to you, people being insensitive, the transition from Chandler's cute floopy hair to his shorter more practical hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28924338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eon_s/pseuds/eon_s
Summary: A very self indulgent bit of Chandler-centric angst. He's got issues. Joey's got the time to hear him out - whenever he wants to open that door.
Relationships: Chandler Bing/Joey Tribbiani
Series: TOW all the FRIENDS fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2121450
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	Hallway Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> (This is not what I thought I was going to do to celebrate my graduation, yet here I am, writing sad shit.)
> 
> As someone who spent years in denial about being multiple letters in the LGBT acronym, and still has some baggage there, I have a soft spot for the idea of 'Chandler in denial.' I have met so many guys (hell, I've been one of them,) like him over the years and it's (sadly) such a type to see these people who get so in their own heads they can't find any peace. So this is partly inspired by that. So... wholesome reason for writing this.
> 
> I also think he's cute when he panics. So... less wholesome reason for writing this.
> 
> Both are valid, so pick whichever one helps you sleep at night. :')

* * *

There’s a kind of drunkenness that always reminds Chandler of being wrapped, naked, in a warm, soft bathrobe. It’s comfortable and lazy, peaceful in a special sort of way. Being drunk to the point where the spirit, however willing, cannot stir the body to excitement takes the pressure off. You can just settle in, wherever you are, no awkward boners, even if a hot girl sits in your lap or the party gets a little raunchy and somebody takes their clothes off. No embarrassment, no desperate scramble to make a joke before becoming the butt of one. It’s… safe.

And maybe – in a more self-reflective moment – Chandler might speculate about what that says about human beings – about young men, drinking until they’re brave enough to be tender, or young women, drinking until they’re brave enough to take the lead. Maybe he’d think about the way it must be different for the girls – how Phoebe, Monica, and Rachel herd up like antelope when any one of them gets too drunk – a defense mechanism. Protection. On some level he wonders, sometimes, if they’d feel safe like he does – on his own, slouched in a hallway in a strange apartment building, here to celebrate the promotion of a friend of a friend of a friend from work. He doubts they would, which makes drunk-Chandler feel kind of sad in a way he can’t fully articulate when he’s so far under the surface.

It’s not really a reflective night, though. It’s a drinking night – a ‘drinking until you’ve gone too far to not look stupid, so you’d better keep going so you’re too incapacitated to _be_ stupid’ night. And maybe – sure – maybe some of the reason he let himself go, didn’t try to stay sober enough to try to get anyone’s number is because all the girls here are friends of this friend of a friend of a friend from work and it might be complicated, might be muscling in on territory, even. But maybe it isn’t that. Maybe it’s just a throwaway comment – something said by a friend of a friend of a friend of a _co-worker_ about how he’s ‘trying to butch it up with his haircut’ and ‘so did he ask before inviting his boyfriend or…?’ and he feels about two inches tall. And then he feels even smaller for feeling small in the first place.

_Just don’t let it get to you. Don’t you ever get tired of having a chip on your shoulder?_

It’s just. He can’t articulate why it bothers him. He doesn’t have anything against gay people as people – he doesn’t think he does, anyway. He’s known some over the years – they’ve been okay. Hell, the ones in his office have always been… efficient. Civil. He’s not totally over the whole debacle about not being hot enough to get a Brian, but besides that, he’s fine. They’re a mixed bag – just like anyone else really. It’s not their fault they’re all lumped into some crazy category in his head that really should be labelled ‘daddy issues’ more than anything to do with gender preferences or any of that… stuff. It’s not like he’s got a problem with – with other people doing it. It’s just – it’s the assumption that _he’s_ the one sneaking around, covering up some big secret, that bothers him.

With that in mind, he drinks until it almost doesn’t.

Joey finds him in the hallway, grinning, lipstick on his cheek and a twinkle in his eye like he’s going to get lucky again, and Chandler wonders dimly how it can be so easy to just… be. Confident. Sexy. It’s not just a good looks thing because he thinks that even if Joey looked like a potato he’d still probably be getting girls’ numbers. It’s just… something. The cockiness, the way he carries himself. Like a ‘why wouldn’t you want to date me? I’d date me,’ kind of thing. Chandler can’t pretend he’d be his own first choice. Even if he did date men, he’d never pick himself, no matter what he says to talk himself up in public. It’s hard to sell someone a car you wouldn’t want to drive out of the dealership.

“What’s goin' on, man? Why are you out here in the hall? The food’s in there. The girls are in there.”

If Chandler were less drunk, he’d be bothered by missing out on all that, but he isn’t. He is exactly where he wants to be. He snuggles back into drowsiness and lets his head fall back against the wall.

“Having fun?” he asks. He honestly hopes the answer is yes. For all he envies Joey’s successes with women, he isn’t jealous or bitter – not tonight, not like this. He wants – desperately, in a full-body ache sort of way – for them _both_ to be happy, not for them to be alone and miserable, alienated and disconnected and fractured like he feels now. That’s something he wouldn’t wish on anybody, let alone his best friend. Sure, he can be a prick about it sometimes, but that’s mostly just to bust Joey’s balls. Just in fun. Just because that’s something that guys are supposed to do and Chandler just wants things to be simple. _Simple._ Uncomplicated. Just two guys, just two buddies, ribbing each other over their sexual conquests or lack thereof.

“Eh. Got a couple of numbers – and hey – one’s even for you.”

Chandler brightens at that. It’s Pavlovian at this point – the promise of human contact with an amenable stranger – human _sexual_ contact no less? It makes him feel like he’s floating.

“No kidding. Was she hot?”

Joey’s not got a great poker face for an actor, but he tries. Says something ambiguous-positive about her. Chandler tries too – wishes he could be less shallow given that it’s about as productive as refusing a sandwich during a famine because you think the lettuce looks a little floppy. Wonders how many straight men nitpick the sound of a woman’s voice or the way she wears her hair or fails to coordinate her outfits in a coherent way. He feels sick with shame.

“What’s up, man? Seriously – you’re all alone out here.”

“They –” his tongue feels like it doesn’t belong to him, “they think I want to fuck you.”

Well, shit. That wasn’t what he’d hoped would come out when he started slurring words out. He hadn’t really known where the sentence was going but objectively this is less than ideal. Joey just blinks at him in response, thinking through it.

“Whose they?” he asks finally.

“The… work guys. Guys from work,” Chandler gets out and wishes he would stop talking. He wishes he could just shut up and fall backwards through the wall and out and down, down, three stories to the pavement, popping his head on the pavement, getting blood all over his –

“My haircut – they think I’m… trying. To look straight. Straight-er.”

Joey just nods along like he’s trying to follow, visibly confused.

“And are you?”

Chandler makes a face that feels pathetic and likely looks worse. He’s way too drunk for this conversation. The warm fuzzy blanket now feels tangled around him and he thinks he might suffocate. When he doesn’t reply, Joey just claps him on the shoulder, and, when that doesn’t buck him up, puts his arm around him.

“Hey, buddy, are you okay?”

Chandler tries for a smirk, but it doesn’t take.

“You already asked that.”

“Yeah. And you wriggled out of it. So I’m askin’ again.”

Chandler can’t argue with that water-tight logic. He shrugs and stares at his shoes.

“No.”

Joey sighs and sits beside him on the step, hand sliding down to cup his forearm.

“Well… you… uh… you wanna talk about it?”

Chandler snorts and Joey lets out a little uncomfortable laugh too, shaking his head.

“How do the girls do it, huh? Just _talk_ about that shit.”

“Witchcraft,” Chandler answers flatly. “Has to be.”

“Look, I… I don’t like seein' you mopin’ around like this. I _really_ don’t like what your work ‘friends’ are sayin’ –”

“Yeah, I imagine it’s a hell of a blow to your ego,” Chandler slurs out before he can stop himself.

“I think I can survive some suits thinking I’m gay,” Joey laughs, shaking his head.

Of course, he blows it off. Of course, he forces Chandler to have to explain a stupid throwaway quip he’s snared himself with.

“I meant ‘cause it’s me.”

Joey’s smile fades immediately.

“Aw, no, Chandler don’t – don’t do that. You always talk down about yourself.”

“Sharp – you’re sharp, Joe. Never let 'em tell you different.”

The words come out somehow both less and more venomous than he wants them to sound.

“Why do you do that? Insult yourself, I mean.”

“Was trying to insult you, there.”

“Yeah, I know. Either way, it can’t be makin’ you feel any better.”

Chandler pauses, stuck on this. He honestly can’t say if it does or it doesn’t. Unsure, he admits that, instead.

“I don’t get it. How could feelin’ bad make you feel better?”

“Because…” he pauses to think through the haze he’s in, words building and bubbling up and out of him irregularly, “I don’t know – it’s familiar? It’s normal?”

“It’s not normal,” Joey declares firmly. “You might be used to it, but it’s not normal.”

“Deeeeelightful,” Chandler sighs, hitting his head a few times against the wall behind him to punctuate his speech. “Another not-normal thing about me.”

Joey sticks a hand back there to stop him concussing himself, cushioning the blow. The warmth of a human hand – a _trusted_ human hand – on his scalp makes him shiver in a way that disgusts him less for its potential homoeroticism and more for the grublike, wormlike lowness of it. Pathetic. Like a stray dog that’s never been pet, he yearns to lean into it. Instead, he wrenches his head free, grimacing.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that, man.”

Joey’s voice sounds close – too close to him. He shivers again and turns his body away as much as he’s able to, trying to ignore how his friend scrubs a hand over his face in frustration, inadvertently smearing the lipstick Mystery Girl left behind. Chandler’s being difficult again – he knows this. Burdensome. Needy. Constantly seeking validation. Misery incarnate. _Fuck._

“Okay,” Joey sighs. “Let’s try this again. You’re upset because of what those assholes said to you. Is it because of the gay thing or is it because you don’t want it to turn out like it did with your parents?”

Chandler stares at him. Every so often, Joey has a moment of true, genuine brilliance. He kind of hates him for it.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Chandler whispers, looking at Joey with real fear in his eyes, which, sure, is a little melodramatic, but he’s pretty sure he’s drunk enough to cry if they open that can of worms and he really doesn’t want to do that in the hallway outside a co-worker’s apartment.

“Look, I’m not gonna judge you either way, man, I just –”

“I can’t start pulling threads here! The whole – the whole thing’ll unravel. I’m… really not ready for that yet.”

He’s not sure how coherent the words come out. (He’s too busy wanting to climb out of his skin and fling himself out the nearest available exit.)

_Yet._ There’s a promise in the yet. Joey notices.

“Yeah, okay,” he answers with more gentleness than Chandler is prepared for. He gets to his feet with a groan and stretches until his back pops before turning to look back down at his still-panicked friend.

“Well, whenever you wanna start pullin’ threads…”

Chandler stares up at him, chest tight. He feels weirdly like he’s at the precipice of either crying or laughing hysterically. He manages, _just_ manages, to nod.

“Want some cheese and crackers? I’ll get you a plate.”

Joey’s looking at him like it’s not a big deal. Chandler feels like it is – it has to be – someone being that nice to him, that willing to cope with his boundaries… his anxieties… his… whatever the fuck is locked up in the 'do not open' box inside his head.

“Sure,” he says, heart in his throat. “Cheese and crackers. Yeah.”

The smile he gets in return feels like it shouldn’t be directed at him – it’s too big and bright and happy and fucking _kind_ and it hurts _so much_ and he's greedy for it. He wants to keep it and squirrel it away and never stop seeing it, even thought it makes him feel sick.

_Is emotional masochism a thing? Is that what this is?_

“You got it, buddy.”

Joey takes his radiant smile with him and goes back into the apartment. Still on the ground, Chandler hugs his knees. He feels strange, shaken, but also weirdly calm. He leans his head back against the wall and stares at a water stain on the ceiling, focusing on breathing in and out. _Joey’s in your corner,_ he repeats to himself, over and over like a mantra. _Joey doesn't think you're pathetic. Or, if he does, he's decided it's a pathetic he can stand to keep around._ It doesn’t stop his chest from tightening -in some ways it actually makes that worse, but it keeps him from following his instincts and bolting for the door. Drunk as he is, he doubts he’d get home without being mugged – that’s his justification, anyway, and he’s sticking to it, clinging as the water rises and he’s eroded down to his hollowest, his most empty, all hopes pinned on a plate of cheese and crackers with his name on it.


End file.
